Daily Poem 10/8/09 Water Color Girl

She was made
of water colors.

My moon-shadow girl,

burning, yearning
turning moonlight's gray on gray

into color's gone too

far and away for

me to say their names

in the breeze of the ceiling fan's twirling.

Her mind turning,
curling her swirling fingertips

over my closed eyes.

As our thighs entwined in the
night-kissed light.

She was made of
wet cotton breezes
and quiet cries.

Fingers turning trails
of wetness to moonlight
treasure maps,

who's topography

was a poetry of tangled
sheets and hair,

where our

heartbeats and
open windows
trapped snapshots
too beautiful to behold
in the silver-glow

of those
tales she told in whispers.

And we wailed

sacred secrets
in those arched-backed

silences.

My moon-shadow girl
curling finally
soft and satisfied

folding into fitful sleeping.

Her too true to be blue

colors turning
brake of day gray

as dawns light came

quiet swirling

to the beat

of the ceiling fan's

twirling.

Al Frankin and those fuckers:

I'm not all that political: however, please read the following two articles. And tell me, in what universe is this OK.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamie_Leigh_Jones

and

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/ap/tx/6655507.html

DAILY POEM: 10/7/09 AND I FEEL FINE

I had not remembered
the sound of your
ear rings
singing in my teeth
before
those nightmares.

Those nightmares,I still

will not admit
were of you.

We laid back
a lewd
blue-hued
sound track,
screaming
to the sweaty
click clack of
my wooden beads
on your
smiling teeth.

We Played That
Phantom Pantomime
of our dream-time
breathing
songs
of atrocity and art.

We got
shot in the guts
took our cuts down to the bone,
shone our pretty eyes,
telling lies like

"to hell with our hearts".

I should d have known
I'd not
quite outgrown
our memory just yet.

Waking to the
taking of breaths
scented true blue
and stinking like you.

I find I'm still
entrenched

in the sweat-enriched
stench we left
clinging to my soul.

You cleave
to me
with ghosts of
sleazy smiles
and
miles don't mean shit!

When it
will always be too easy
to get lost in those
half-heard words
your surprise colored-eyes
left smoking on my tongue.

Baby you always make it
too hard not to

capitulate when we
create such devastating
versions of our
diversions.

Your wake leaves
me sated and shaken
in a half-lame
bifurcated game
run by
fickle flights of fancy,
and
bloody-toothed romance.

The bruises from
our occasional dances
hijacking my
boring days in a
haze of blazing
glory and
glittery haste

tasting of your sweat.

While we take trips
too beautiful to describe
and inscribe each other
with lazy razor tongues
and liar's eyes.

Then we wave our laughing
half-hearted
good byes
and I lay and lie
in other men's eyes.

While you live
lives
I care not to share.

But baby there will
always be
dark nights
and bad-mad-dreams
of you and of seeing our
beads smacking
in lust-rhythm-time.

When I'm too real to
deny and too false to feel.

Where your Ghost breathes fire
and there's blood grit in my teeth.

These then
are the true tales
I dream of us.

And despite
the sweat and that
sweet sweet hunger,
I wake up howling, and I feel fine.

I wanna go to PHAT Camp.

In my infinite capacity to sew chaos. I have tried to get a dear and even dearer friend to resurrect the bones of the Pagan Alliance of Central Texas.

Of course being me I want it re-named
the Pagan/Heathen Alliance of Texas....PHAT.

That's right,
Mamma wants to go to PHAT Camp.

Daily Poem: 10/6/09

It's like a room in the Chelsea Hotel:

The Song Says:
"I don't think of her all that often,
but I remember her well
in the Chelsea Hotel"

And I
I don't think of
HIM
all that often.

Except,
of course,
when I do.

Those bone-knicking
gut-kick
moments
of clarity.

When I

forget
to forget
his smell.

Or how easy
and well
I fell
into
brown eyes
where
my
reflection
shone
so fucking beautiful.

He says
"Our scars
have the power
to remind us
the past is real".

These days
I deal from a new
deck,
in a reality
that has shifted
long away
from our
old
easy lost
conjunctions.

No more
tangled
sheets
and perfect
purpose.

I function
in a new skin
and transverse
new seas,
seeing
me only in my
own eyes
and I?

I only
rarely
finger
the ridges
of scars
heavy
with his name.

All the same,
I remember.

I remember
him well.

Day:

I've got yellow flowers in my hair.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya by a beautiful poet boy who's name I don't know.
I've got yellow flowers in my hair stolen from the vines at the fountain at Ruta Maya by a beautiful poet boy who's name I don't know, who gave them to me because he liked my poems.

I've got 1/3 of a tree embroidered on my apron, it's a lovely swirly free-form tree.

My abs are slightly sore from the long work-0ut this morning.

I've got an appointment at 9 with the Uncle Sugar folks to talk about re-edu-ma-catin me.

The cats have just had treats.

All is right with the world.

Bird's Song.

My chest is
full of caged birds they
can not sing.

Fluttering
their clipped wings

against the scar-ridges

of my
broken ribs.

Scratching their

scribbled lines

on lungs
full to bursting.

Cursing the
words
coming

crushing from
raw throats.

Dying from
trying to
sing
thirsting

to scream

this endless stream,

of want.

Flaunting
their rage,
beating bent wings

against
the bars of
our cage.

Taunting me

and

calling our
cawing Poetry.

Frilled Lizards and potato chips

So today, I've defeated the clean laundry, and the pile of accumulated craft supplies, mail, poetry books, backpacks and "stuff" that had become the living room futon.

"Tidy" has been achieved. A Pizza has been obtained, potato chips have been purchased for the cat and I am currently watching videos of Frilled Lizards.

Because Frilled lizards make me happy.